


and the way that i'm built (i don't sleep so well)

by Hymn



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: All Of The Mad Max: Fury Road Tags Ever?, Alpha Furiosa, Alpha/Beta, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Breeding Kink, Canon-Typical Violence, Come Inflation, Dubious Consent, F/M, Female Alpha, I Don't Even Know, I can't think of anything else my mind is a blur of horror right now, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kinda, Let me know if there are any that i really should tag for, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pre-Mad Max: Fury Road, Rimming, This Is Just An Excuse For Porn, anal penetration, bottom!ace, getting together fic??, knots, oh right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 01:04:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19937494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hymn/pseuds/Hymn
Summary: The Ace has been waiting.One hundred fourteen days have passed since Furiosa became Imperator and claimed him as her second, and he’s been keeping track of every one. It hasn’t been easy, but he’sTheAce, and the War Boys in the barracks know well enough to respect his things. He’s got a brittle piece of fender, too rusted around the edges to be repurposed for much of anything, and he’s been carving the days one by one into the secret curve of it.It’ll come soon, he knows, looking over the hatch marks. A few more tendays, perhaps, and the rage will come down over her; the rutting fever. He needs to be ready, he thinks, but for what he can’t be sure.So he waits.





	and the way that i'm built (i don't sleep so well)

**Author's Note:**

> full disclosure - not actually in this fandom, have only watched the movie and read some fics, absolutely not up to date on what Furiosa's backstory is, and also i wrote this damned thing in two different fevered frenzies separated by four months and then sort of jammed them together whether they wanted to fit or not, so...
> 
> enjoy?
> 
> edit: heh, i was fast running out of steam when i posted this, so i forgot to add: my love of The Ace/Furiosa comes from [The Montains Are The Same](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11537925) which is such an unbelievably good fic, holy gods. i probably stole some world-building/backstory from there, but also - do not blame them for the travesty of this story XD all my sins belong to me lmao

* *

  
  
  


**and the way that i’m built (i don’t sleep so well)**

  
  
  


* *

The Ace has been waiting.

One hundred fourteen days have passed since Furiosa became Imperator and claimed him as her second, and he’s been keeping track of every one. It hasn’t been easy, but he’s _The_ Ace, and the War Boys in the barracks know well enough to respect his things. He’s got a brittle piece of fender, too rusted around the edges to be repurposed for much of anything, and he’s been carving the days one by one into the secret curve of it.

It’ll come soon, he knows, looking over the hatch marks. A few more tendays, perhaps, and the rage will come down over her; the rutting fever. He needs to be ready, he thinks, but for what he can’t be sure. 

So he waits.

* *

(If she was like any other Imperator then he thinks he’d _know_ already. But she isn’t, and she won’t take any of the War Boys into the cab of the rig to sate her temper, to slake her hunger, so instead The Ace has nothing save his own wonderings with which to prepare for the inevitable.

He should have left it alone, because now he can’t _stop_ wondering.)

* *

Around day one hundred twenty one Fulgur says, “Ehh, you sure are lookin’ hard at th’ boss. You all shine for her or something? Want her pups?”

It’s an absurd thing to say -- The Ace is a beta male, same as all the War Boys in Furiosa’s crew. If any of them had been breeders, beta female or male omega, then they wouldn’t be here on the rig. The Ace doesn’t envy the breeders, exactly, but _everyone_ envies the Wives, living soft and grand and treasured up high in the Immortan’s regard, getting bellies full of godseed. It’s been a long time since The Ace thought about what that might be like; a War Boy’s life doesn’t usually leave room for such blasphemous dreaming.

Across the sand his Imperator is seated in the rig’s cab, cleaning her Mauser. Her hands are steady, competent; they’re waiting for the Buzzards to appear on the horizon, ready to raid. The Ace has been pacing, watching her, even as he moves about the rig and the Boys and makes sure everything is ready to run smoothly.

He’s been grateful for his goggles, the way they mask how he keeps his eyes trained on her. Apparently, not well enough. He grunts in reply.

“Hmm,” Fulgur hums, sounding all chuffed and only half-mocking. “Can’t say as I blame yah, Ace. Alpha likes a’ _her_ could get anyone wet between the legs --”

The Ace smacks him upside the head. Fulgur goes stumbling into the blistering sand.

“HEY,” he cries, turning, ready for a fast and brutal tussle. 

But before he can do more than square his shoulders Furiosa steps down from the Rig, gaze steady and flat as the pale wasteland sky. “Problem?” she asks, and her voice carries easy, authoritative and steel-spined. Fulgur near vibrates for a moment, squared shoulders suddenly gone crooked as he looks back at her, torn between the indignity of being swatted like a Pup and the chill appraisal.

“N-no,” he stutters out.

The Ace says, placid, “Nothin’ you need to worry about, boss.”

“Hmm.”

War Boys crawl along the rig, pale faces peeking out from the sleek black metal to see the show. They know that tone already, even the Boy who’s only been with them for twenty-six days, now. The Imperator steps out from the shadow of the rig, ambles towards them at a deceptively casual pace.

Fulgur really _is_ vibrating, now.

 _Alphas_ , thinks The Ace, and not for the first time. Immortan Joe crafted them this way on purpose, touched with a hint of godhood themselves, and it works well enough at keeping everyone else in line. But it’s also why the War Boys turn so schlanging stupid sometimes beneath their gaze. The Ace knows better how not to show it, or so he hopes. 

“I handled it,” he tells her, a little gruffer than he meant.

Her eyes flick to him for a moment, cool and green, and then away, focused on Fulgur. “You did,” the Imperator agrees, and her voice is still carrying, meant to be heard by the Boys behind her, hanging onto her words as much as they are the rig. “But you shouldn’t have had to in the first place. Fulgur -- do you have a problem with my Ace?”

“N-no,” Fulgur stutters out again, eyes wide. 

“No?” demands Furiosa.

“ _No_ ,” Fulgur squeaks out, hands trembling to form the Vee Eight, but he knows now is not the time, that their Imperator does not work like that, doesn’t accept easy obeisance in exchange for forgiveness. “Boss, no! I didn’t -- I didn’t _mean_ anythin’ by it, I promise. I was just --”

“Just _what_? What were you doing, Fulgur, right before we make war on the Buzzards, that forced my Ace to take a hand to you as though you were a _Pup_.”

Fulgur wilts.

“I -- I --”

Ace says, “Boss,” and shifts a little in the sand, shoulders easy, head tilted to the side as much as his bumps will let him. Showing her his throat, trying to calm her down. Furiosa glares at him, mouth tight. He watches her nostrils flare, like she’s trying to take in his scent -- but he’s just a beta, just paint and half-life sickness, grease and sweat; there’s no omega-sweetness in him to calm her down like she needs.

She throws back her shoulders, juts her chin out defiantly. Declares to them all: “We are _crew_. Act like it.”

There is a chorus of “Witness!” from the rig, and now finally Fulgur makes the Vee Eight, wheezing out, “Witness!” like it’s all he can do not to drop to his knees on the sand before her, the way she makes even the heat of the day seem kind, fury radiating off of her in waves.

She turns on her heel and stalks back to the cab.

“Maybe,” The Ace says drily when she’s out of earshot, “if you watched the Boss a little closer, you’d’a known her fever’s comin’ on.”

Fulgur groans.

It makes Ace quirk a grin, clapping him on the shoulder. The Boy’s only been with them forty-eight days, but he’s done well -- better than some of the other Boys assigned their crew at the beginning. “Well?” he asks the younger Boy, shaking him a little. “You get wet between the thighs, then?”

Fulgur groans again and says a little petulantly, “Well _yeah_. Didn’t you?” 

The Ace barks a laugh and pushes the Boy back toward the rig.

* *

(That night, when the nightfevers keep him up, he blames Fulgur for the slant his wonderings take, imagining it. He clenches his thighs together and thinks about what it might be like, about being omega enough to take her seed. Pretends the fever in his skin isn’t from being half-life but from being all heated up, wet for someone just like the boss.

But, no -- not _someone_ like the boss. 

He only wants Furiosa. 

In another life, a better one, he would be slick and ready, already dripping for her.

It’s shameful, probably blasphemous. But he remembers the possessive curl of heat and threat in her voice when she’d said _my Ace_ , laying claim, and he has to choke off a moan as his gearstick throbs, his gut clenches in greed, and his dazed, sick-slurred thoughts escape him, and he _wishes_ \--

The Ace has never really hated his bumps; they’re a part of him, like on every War Boy. It’s only when he thinks of the boss and how badly he wants her teeth in his throat, claiming him as _hers_ , that he scrabbles at the growths on his throat, his shoulder, desperate to be rid of them.)

* *

Because the Sludge is a poxy schlanger he’s fucking an omega in heat when the guard lets Furiosa and Ace inside. The Ace hadn’t been able to smell it with the door shut -- a beta’s nose isn’t all that great -- but he’s been watching the line of Furiosa’s shoulders get more and more tense, can feel the air around her grow thunderous, scent spiking sharp and ozone electric.

She growls when she sees them. The sound is like a storm rolling in, too big and fierce and filling every bit of space within the room.

And he thinks -- _day one hundred thirty six_. 

Furiosa’s got no chance like this so close to the rutting fever, even if the omega isn’t very shine, not like the Immortan’s Wives. She’s missing an eye and has bumps all across her jaw, down her neck, but her tits are huge and bare and would be bouncing but that the Sludge is gripping one in each hand to encourage the desperate way she’s grinding down on his gearstick, like she can’t get enough. She’s whining, high in her throat, and it rises to a brittle keen when her heat-hazed eyes land on Furiosa.

“ _Alpha_ ,” she begs

The Ace can feel his Imperator tense.

Before she can do anything he’s moving, because he’s her _Ace_ , he knows what’s needed and he’ll do it, no matter what. He drops to his knees in front of her and she walks right into his face, bulge hot against his skin. She snarls, but he’s already got his hand up, kneading at her. “Boss,” he says, real low and quiet, soft and unobtrusive.

It makes her look down at him, at least, though her lip is twisted in a sneer. “ _Boss_ ,” The Ace says again, fingers on her fly. “I got you.”

Behind him the Sludge laughs, but it isn’t triumphant though it’s trying to be. He’d wanted Furiosa to lose control, to give his guards a reason to have her at gunpoint, something obvious that he can have his audience spread word of so that Immortan Joe doesn’t come back at him for offing one of his Imperator’s and stealing rig, shipment, and bragging rights.

The Ace knows this; he also knows that even if his mouth wasn’t already filling with saliva at the thought of getting to taste her he’d still be here, on his knees. The crew would be forfeit if she lost control.

“Don’t,” she grits out, but he shakes his head.

He says, “We’re crew. We do what needs to be done. _Let_ me,” and when she hesitates despite the fury in her face, he pulls down her zipper and her gearstick springs into view, already hard and swollen up, fat and red and angry with need. The Ace catches his groan in his chest where it shakes him apart, but at least no one else sees or hears how much he wants this.

Furiosa fits her metal fingers to the back of his head like a benediction.

The Ace could _almost_ thank the Sludge for this gift. Instead, he gets to work. His mouth is all soft on one side and he’s worried he won’t be able to give her the suction she needs, so he just fangs it instead, sliding her in over his tongue and getting messy with it. Spit slicks down his chin; her hand clenches to hold him in place as she eases in further still.

She murmurs,”Breathe through your nose. Stay relaxed.”

The Ace lets his hands fall to his thighs, gripping tight, as his boss slowly eases the full length of her gearstick -- hot, wide, too much for him to take, like an exhaust pipe seeking to sear him from the inside out -- into his mouth, tapping at the back of his throat. He chokes, and she guides him so that he’s angled better, and then she _pushes_ , hissing a little, and somehow the hot girth of her slides down into his throat, and it’s so fucking _shine_ to feel her like that, stuffing him so full, that his vision blurs out as he shudders like an engine. 

( _Yes_ , he thinks. _Yes, this -- finally_.) 

He expects her to pull back and then thrust in again. But she just -- sits there. In his throat and his mouth, stretching his jaw too wide and gagging him, not moving an inch. The Ace breathes through his nose, fighting not to tense up, not to whine for her to thrust.

“Just because your gearstick has a few bumps, Sludge,” the Imperator says in a thoughtful, dark rumble, clear enough to be heard by all, “doesn’t mean you’re an alpha. Now, shall we deal?”

* *

(He remembers day fifty-six:

That night the nightfevers keep him up. The crew is all ranged out victorious in the sand around one of the Buzzard’s flaming cars like some bonfire. The Ace set up watchers but there shouldn’t be any reason for them -- the Buzzards form mostly solitary packs, ranging far and wide. No one will think anything amiss until days from now, and that’s supposing anyone even bothers to check. The rest of the Boys are either snoring or fucking, and The Ace, for his part, has been trying to relax. Unfortunately, all he seems able to do is thrash about on top of the rig. Eventually, the boss bangs a metal hand against the roof of it and The Ace swings obediently down. “Need somethin’?” he grunts, feeling shaky and too-hot.

His Imperator’s got her eyes closed, slouched down in the driver seat with her knees all spread. Sometimes, the Boys look like Pups again when they’re asleep or drifting, weak and vulnerable to the point it hurts something in The Ace’s gut to see them so soft. But not Imperator Furiosa. The Ace doesn’t think _anything_ could make her look soft, especially with that chrome arm of hers. 

But she does look steady, and still, and _safe_ , and that something inside of The Ace’s gut that gets all hurtful when he sees the Pups or has to Witness another Historic Ride has this moment of getting all twisted up with longing, seeing her like that. 

It’s strange; he’s not sure he likes it.

And then she says all quiet and firm, “Get in the cab, Ace.”

He stares at her, feeling almost like he’s just been thrown off the rig when it’s roaring at full-speed. His mouth goes even drier than it already was, and if he were feeling better, then maybe he’d know exactly what she wants from him and that request rather than just feeling so schlanging _surprised_. Imperators who bring War Boys into the cab of a rig only have one thing on their mind, after all.

But that -- that doesn’t seem like _his_ Imperator, is the thing. 

And The Ace has been watching her closely, so he thinks he’d know. Still. Maybe she’s just been biding her time. And -- his head hurts, aching, and all at once he remembers that he’s been _waiting_ , counting down the days and keeping her in his sights because her fever is going to come eventually and surely, surely _something_ is going to change. An alpha is an alpha after all. Already the rage seems to shiver like a mirage under her skin, there and then gone. 

Terrified, he slurs out weakly, “Hmm, I should uh, should prob’ly check the scouts.” 

“ _Ace_ ,” Furiousa says, a little smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Get in the cab. _Now._ ”

He does.

Once he’s in, he’s not quite certain he remembers how he got there. Between her alpha-voice and the nightfevers clouding up his brain he’s not thinking quite right. But he’s there, suddenly, in the closed up cab of the rig with just his Imperator. Out the open windows he hears a Boy moaning, and then The Ace is imagining it, thinking about his hand around Furiosa’s gearstick, about her forcing her way into his ass, shoving and thrusting and --

“For fuck’s sake,” his Imperator huffs, and then he’s pressed down and down and down to her thigh and held there. “Go to _sleep_ , Ace. I can’t have you a wreck when we need to wrangle the Boys back home in the morning. This victory’s going to turn them stupid, I know it.”

“Hngh.” 

The rig’s gearshift is pressed against The Ace’s chest, almost like an embrace. And his Imperator’s hand stays still and heavy against his neck, over his bumps, her skin cool against his own fevered flesh. He shivers, shudders, wracked with pain and discomfort, but --

“Be _still_ ,” that voice commands, and beta though he is The Ace has no choice but to obey.

He falls asleep, safe and warm, drifting.)

* *

They get through that meeting, somehow.

Eventually, the Sludge grows tired of hearing his omega beg Furiosa to knot her, that it’s not enough, that she _needs_ her (and The Ace knows, he understands; he needs her, too.) so he pulls her off his schlanger and turns her around. At least, The Ace suspects that he does; he’s a little busy and can’t actually look to see, but her cries cut off with a muffled shout, and there are still wet noises happening and the sent of omega-slick is cloying in the still air.

The Sludge must have taken The Ace’s example, making the omega swallow him down.

But unlike those faraway sounds suggest, Furiosa isn’t moving. The Ace expected she’d fuck his face, maybe knot his mouth and make him drink her seed, but she’s just using his mouth instead to keep her gearstick sheathed. It’s unbearably hot, in a way The Ace hadn’t expected, would never have dreamed (and he’s been dreaming about this so _much_ lately.)

They’re talking, the two of them -- the Sludge and Furiosa. He hears the rumble of her voice and the Sludge’s sneering responses, but he -- he can’t focus on it, on the individual words let alone the sense of them all put together. It’s beyond him just now. No matter that he’s her Ace and should be paying attention, his whole world has narrowed down to the smell of her so close, her alpha-musk so sharply acrid, like an overheated engine. 

Strangely enough, he feels like that time in the rig’s cab, her holding him steady through the wracking pain of nightfevers, so that instead all he felt was warm and safe, drifting on a wave of soothing nothingness. 

He never wants it to end.

(He does want it to _progress_ , though: his knees want to slip on the hard-packed dirt, wordlessly begging her to put her gearstick in another place, a better one.)

Distantly, he’s aware of the fact that he’s whimpering; has been, in fact, because no matter his determination and her strange care, he’s coming undone like this. His jaw aches, his throat keeps convulsing around her, and his breath is whistling through his nose. Saliva is dripping from his chin to the floor, now, little _pat pat_ sounds, and he’s so hard it actually hurts.

Whenever he gets too loud Furiosa gently withdraws, lets him pop off her and gasp for breath, great lungfuls of it. Only a moment or two, no more, and then the head of her gearstick is tapping against his cheek and he’s mouthing at her, getting her back inside where she belongs and the whole thing starts over again -- the slow, inexorable slide of her into his mouth and down his throat, where she stays, content to choke him.

She’s so _hot_ ; so big and solid, and --

Her gearstick slips free, all shiny and red, throbbing. And then her -- her _hand_ slips free from the back of his head, to his shoulder where she grips him hard a moment before releasing. And then she’s zipping up, buttoning her pants despite that she’s too hard, still, and the head rears angry out the top of her waistband like the worst tease. 

“Up,” she tells him, and he scrambles to obey, shaking, reeling, because _wait_ \--

“Boss?” he gets out, voice a cracked husk.

She won’t look at him; turns on her booted heel and starts striding away, knowing he’ll follow. She says, “Deal’s done. We leave at first light.”

When The Ace gazes about blearily he sees that the omega has been given to nearby guards, one at her mouth and one at her cunt, and she’s squirming, fucking herself desperately between them, but her eyes are still wild and trained on Furiosa, a desperation to her face that’s painful to see. Mostly because he feels it echoed deep in his gut, like a scream.

The Ace follows his Imperator out, though he limps a little with the way his gearstick is still throbbing with greed, unsteady on his feet.

* *

(She isn’t supposed to just _stop_. She’s not meant to have that control, not when The Ace is spiraling out of it, so ready to blow his load that all he needs is that first spurt of her seed down his throat; just the slightest swell of her knot trying to lock his mouth and he’d be up and over that cresting dune, suspended perfectly in the air before gravity pulls him back down.)

* *

He doesn’t think they’re going to talk about it.

The shape of Furiosa’s shoulders is cut off, solitary -- there is no room for him near her so he orbits idly by, following in her wake. She must be angry that she had to make do with his mouth, his soured beta-scent, especially with a fertile omega right across the room, begging for her. The Ace gets it, even if it turns his arousal into a hard black pit lodged up under his ribcage. His throat hurts; his gearstick slowly goes soft, and he tells himself it’s a mercy. 

They leave the Sludge’s chambers and make their way through the half-busy market, taking the right that will lead them out to the yards where the rig and the rest of the crew waits. When he turns the corner he gets maybe a step before her forearm is against his throat, shoving him hard into the tin siding of a chop house.

“Don’t you _ever_ ,” she snarls, snapping up at him, “do that again. Do you hear me?! Don’t you _ever_.”

He gurgles out, as best he can: “B-boss?!”

If he’s ever seen her this furious, he can’t remember. In a flash of fear he recalls a day before Furiosa became Imperator, when she’d been a War Boy on Imperator Exitium’s crew, same as Axle, a Boy that The Ace had known since they were Pups. “You should’a seen it,” Axle says in his memory, flinging his arms out wide in ecstacy. “It was _chrome_ , Ace, absolutely kamicrazy, I’m telling you! She ripped that War Boy t’ _shreds_ , with teeth and fingers and --”

“She kill him?”

“ _Yeah_.”

The Ace grimaces, stomach roiling. But he says, flat as he can manage: “She fuck him before or after he was dead, then?”

“No, no, nothin’ like that --” Axle explains, sniffing and looking self-important, “-- I overheard Imperator Exitium sayin’ that the rut-rage was like this when an alpha didn’ have a crew -- a _pack_ \-- of their own. All like, savage an’ stuff. Fucking’s what happens when an alpha’s settled as Imperator. Need t’ be safe-feeling to _breed_.”

“That so?”

“ _Yeah_. The Imperator was all pissed, too, ‘cause he said he liked givin’ it to her, she was all spark and spit or somethin’, snarlin’ at him every time. But that was ‘fore he knew she was a _she_ and an _alpha_ , and now he can’t, and he was so mad that he sent Rev off to the Gates of Valhalla without even --”

Sometimes, The Ace had wondered if Axle knew _how_ to shut up.

But he remembers the story, now, and he remembers wondering idly how someone so small as Furiosa had been as a Boy could have had that much menace and bloodthirst and blind _rage_ in her, to rip another human being to pieces, but now, _now_ \--

His whole body goes limp, supplicant. His heart pounds, his palms sweat, and he pisses himself, just a little.

Furiosa must smell it. Her nostrils flare wide, then her eyes go tight and dark and she pulls away from him, turning sharply and breathing heavily. Her shoulders shake. The scent of her -- feral and too big, as wide and merciless as the horizon -- doesn’t recede. The Ace coughs, choking on it, his throat sore for more reasons than just her gearstick now. It takes effort, more than he even knew he could find, but he draws in a ravaged breath and says, steady as he can, “ _Boss_. What’s goin’ on?”

She shakes her head.

“I’ve never been scared of you,” The Ace says, because as much as he wants her, he needs her even more. She’s a good Imperator, the best, and The Ace can’t stand to lose her, not for himself and not for this crew that she’s pulled together, close-knit and sure and true, like a _real_ pack. It’s why he’s tried to hide his desire from her until now, when he had no choice; why he’s been waiting so careful, watching so close. He _can’t_ lose her, not even to herself.

So he forces himself to add, as dry and sarcastic as he can: “Until now, that is. Tell me what’s goin’ on in your head.”

She says, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I had’ta,” he replies, holding out his hands placatingly toward her stiff spine. “You _know_ I did. Would’a been death for all of us if you’d lost it in there, boss. Of _course_ I had your back.”

There’s silence; the dry wind scouring the wasteland sands interrupts it. Father off is the sound of the market, and farther still is the chatter of the crew as they wait for them. A car backfires somewhere in the desert, and The Ace holds his breath, waiting for his boss -- his Imperator; his pack’s _alpha_ \-- to let him in like she always has. 

But this time, she doesn’t budge.

So he sighs and, because her ozone scent is still making him dizzy, he accidentally offers up the truth, a little nastily: “Sorry you hated it. Know I’m not some shine omega, boss, but --”

(-- _if I could, if I was, I promise I’d be yours_ \--)

“It’s not _that_ ,” she grates out.

Frustrated, he growls back, “Then _what_ , boss? How’m I to please you if you won’t tell me what I did _wrong_ , eh? How can I --”

“ _Please me_ ,” she snarls.

The Ace shuts up quick as she spins back around, posturing. There’s alpha in her voice, raw and furious. Her scent is even thicker and sharper now, nearly overpowering, and despite all the instinctive fear, the piss staining the front of his pants, he feels himself growing hard again, struggling not to pant with need, desperate to apologize and promise that he’ll never do it again, never upset her, but. But he --

He’s her _Ace_.

And he’s not an omega, he’s _not_ , and even if that cuts him up inside sometimes it can serve him well, too, he thinks. Because his Imperator needs _him_ , not some breeder who can’t think beneath the force of her will. So he blinks, and he stares back at her, and he _waits_ , refusing to cower.

“I won’t _ever_ use you,” she finally admits. “Don’t you _dare_ make me do that again. You don’t need to _please me_ , you’re not some whore to be used. You’re not a _thing_. You’re my Ace, you’re --”

“I’m yours,” The Ace agrees. “And you’re _my_ Imperator.”

The admission seems to soothe the alpha, but irritate _Furiosa_. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t think _she_ gets it, either, what he wants, what he’s offering. Or maybe she does, but it just doesn’t matter enough to her in the face of her own wants, her own fears, which are -- something. The Ace isn’t sure, not yet. They’re missing something, somehow, even with as obvious as The Ace is being in his greed and need, but when he tries to find the words to figure out what needs fixing he can’t, too turned around and turned on and waiting, just _waiting_ for her to snap and spring, but she doesn’t. 

She just shakes her head instead and stomps off, back to the crew.

He follows along in her wake, wondering at it.

* *

(That position, of course, comes back to him again and again -- her arm over his throat, pressing him into a wall. He imagines it playing out a different way, imagines her snarling at him to strip, to lift a leg and curl it around her hip as she fumbles out her engorged gearstick, slick with his spit still, to push and shove inside of him until he feels her like a part of himself, just right and too big and burning hot and _perfect_ , so perfect, he --

 _Mine_ , she snarls. 

_Yours_ , he promises. _Use me, please, fuck -- knot me, alpha, let me feel it, let me have it_ \--

He comes with a groan, muffled and hurting and confused, and he wants what he can’t have, what she won’t give him. He realizes all at once what he’s been waiting for: the chance to get her knot in him, to have her so riled up with rage and need when the fever comes that she’ll let him bend over for her, let him be the one that she chooses, that calms the rage. He’s waiting for the moment when he might claim her in the only way he can, and be claimed in turn.

He’s too greedy, he knows.

But still -- the rutting fever will come, and something must be done. A breeder is probably what she wants, since she doesn’t seem to want crew. And if it hurts that she doesn’t want _him_ , which is the only answer he can come up with for the way she reacted at the Sludge’s compound, then fine, The Ace can deal with that. He’s half-life and long-lived, he’s known his share of aches and pains and losses. He’ll survive this one, too.)

* *

“Boss,” says The Ace on day one hundred forty.

Furiosa ignores him, half-hidden under a pursuit vehicle. They’re not scheduled for anything, haven’t been since coming back from the Sludge’s compound, and won’t be until she’s past the rutting fever. The crew is reveling in the downtime, gleeful at the prestige that comes with their alpha Imperator. The Ace has his eyes on Furiosa, as always.

“How we doing this?” he asks.

There’s a clank, one he’s fairly certain wasn’t intentional. Then Furiosa’s rolling out from under the carriage and staring up at him, perplexed. “Doing what?”

“The rage’s been on you for days,” Ace says, shrugging a little. “So how do’ya want to do this? Want me to bring a breeder up to your den? Or you just gonna --”

“No.”

She’s looking up at him now with that hard expression, the one that’s endless terrain and heat haze heavy on the horizon, no give, no escape. He swallows, going still with the way she’s looking at him, with what she just said. Careful, he double checks. “No?”

“ _No_.”

“Ah -- right, then,” The Ace says, blinking a bit. His breathing feels unsteady and his heart is running hot and fast, all the way into fifth gear. Maybe he was wrong, then. Maybe -- He can feel his ass clenching in hope, gearstick perking up, ready to be driven. He tries to focus, to not get too ahead of himself. “You, uh -- right. Which one of us, then?”

Now, it’s Furiosa’s turn to blink. 

“...What?”

“Which’a the Boys are you going to breed?”

It’s terrifying, sometimes, how far away she seems to go. The Ace is staring into her eyes, cool and green and shadowy, and they’re _empty_ , like she’s lost somewhere way down deep where he can’t follow. He doesn’t like that. Furiosa needs to stay here, with him, because he doesn’t want to go back to the other Imperators, not when Furiosa is better by half and --

“Boss,” he questions, hands clenching tight at his side. “Boss, c’mon. You -- You gotta breed _someone_ , why can’t it be one of us, eh? Why not -- me?”

Slowly, she drags herself the rest of the way from beneath the carriage. There’s grease streaked all over her, and her scent’s been burning in his nose for days, her rut nearly here. But now it’s brittle and curling in on the edges, or feels like, nothing of the storm he’s used to, nothing of the rage that had been riding her at the Sludge’s, brought on by omega-sweetness and outrage. She moves like she’s dreaming, a curious dissonance to her motions; nothing quite so deadly as her usual brutal efficiency, and it makes something curdle in his gut to see it, his chest clenching up tight and fearful.

“...Boss?”

She murmurs, “Ace. You don’t get it. I won’t -- I won’t be like them. Like Exitium and -- I won’t fuck any of you. I won’t _hurt_ you. I won’t ever touch anyone who doesn’t _want_ to be touched, I won’t --”

He says, “But boss, I --”

“Don’t ask me again, Ace,” she says. “Just leave me be, let me ride it out. Alone. I’ve done it before, I can do it again. _None of you_ will come to harm, I promise.”

He wants to tell her that she’s wrong -- that she’s not thinking right at all. That it’s a privilege for any of them to be fucked by an alpha, no matter who the Imperator is, and for it to be _her_ , well, that’s even better -- but that isn’t right, either, because The Ace remembers the dread he’d felt when his own Imperator, the one he’d had before _her_ , had been hungry to knot someone; he remembers the sick-shame-empathy he’d felt when Axle had told him about how she’d struggled each time Exitium had mounted her, and _oh_.

She must have hated that.

No wonder she’s so scared of doing the same thing to them.

* *

(It wouldn’t be the same.

How does he explain that, though? He supposes he could tell her about a day long past, when The Ace had been merely _Ace_. “What?” Axle had asked, first time Ace had rolled over onto his belly, the hand on his gearstick not enough to satisfy. The other boy had snorted, “What is it? Wanna be bred or somethin’?”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Ace had moaned, lit up at just the thought. “Yes. _Yes_ , put it -- in me.”

And Axle had, breathing out, “ _Shine_ , you’re tighter than a -- than a _breeder_ , Ace, wow,” while Ace bit clean through his lip at the hot-painful stretch of it, the feeling of fullness. He could tell her that it had been the most chrome feeling he’d ever felt, that he’d wanted it again and again and again, all the way up until their duties as War Boys became too much for Ace to limp about, and --

Would she care?

Would she get jealous?

Maybe he should tell her that he _wants_ her to get jealous, wants her all riled up and mounting him and biting at his neck and shoulders wherever she can sink her teeth in past the bumps. That he’d give up Valhalla and Fury Road and everything else just to experience her knot plugging him up, that he _wants_ to be full of her seed, sloshing with it, wants it so, so bad, he --

Does it matter what he wants?

He hopes so.)

* *

He’s not an omega. He’s _not_.

But he feels like the stories they tell about how they are all heated up, all buzzing and desperate for her to touch. A whiff of her scent -- hostile and huge, bristling with the rage -- is all he needs to get dizzy, imagining what it would be like. His knees waver; he wants to sink to the floor and spread his thighs, beg her to fill him, certain the only way to calm the maddening need is to have her inside him, slaking her lust.

“Boss,” he croaks out, two days later when he can _smell_ the rut on her.

She looks at him all challenge, head heavy on her neck. Her nostrils flare to catch his scent like she can’t help herself, and he wishes he were omega-sweet, wishes he were soft and slick and ripe for her, but he isn’t. Still, he wants it. He wants it enough to ask again, even after she said _not_ to, because it’s _her_ , his boss, his --

“Alpha,” he manages, shuddering hard all over.

Her pupils expand, swallowing the green. And Ace has never been a small Boy, or weak; he’s broad shouldered and sturdy, taller than her, but he can feel his spine go liquid-smooth, like oil, head tipping back on a hard exhale, like his body is all set to take over and show her his belly (let her make it swell with seed, make him heavy with her _pups_ , oh, he wants it.)

“Ace,” she growls at him. “No, I _told_ you that I won’t --”

“Don’t make me beg,” he tells her, and it shuts her up right quick, startled. He takes a step closer, breathing her in, adds, “‘Cause I will. I’ll beg, boss. Alpha. _Please_.”

“You -- Why would you -- ?”

And there’s a wild confusion on her face, half-feral. Like somehow she doesn’t understand what he’s trying here, what he’s asking. So he leans in close, ducking down to peer up at her from below like he’s witnessed some of the breeders doing to the alphas they prefer, and explains plain, so there can be no misunderstanding: “Because it’s _you_ , Furiosa. You’re th’ one I want. And I want _you_ t’ breed _me._ ”

Her throat moves as she swallows.

* *

He strips off his clothes and sinks onto her mattress -- which is _shine_ , all soft and good-smelling with her alpha-musk -- and he knows how this goes, he’s seen it a time or two when other alphas have taken breeders to slake their fevers. He knows the way they’d positioned the girls, the curve of their spine, and it’s harder for him, what with being so big and with his bumps limiting his mobility, but he manages it.

Face in the softness of the mattress, breathing her in, ass in the air as high as he can get it, thighs spread wide enough he’s quivering. He hopes she likes it -- likes _him_ , beta and half-life and desperate for her knot.

When she comes out of her little bathing room he hears her choke a little, her footsteps going suddenly still. He waits, holding position, holding his breath, shaking with the need for her to approve. She has to. She’s an alpha and he’s letting her use him, _wants_ her to, and he can’t quite get his breathing steady because all he can do is think about how this is going to feel, what it’ll be like to have her gearshift spreading him open, pistoning into him and pumping him full.

He might whimper, a bit.

“ _Ace_ ,” she says, and it’s -- it’s not a good sound, the way she says it. He tenses up all over which is painful on his lower back and thighs. He opens his eyes, which he hadn’t even realized he’d closed, and sees her standing there, staring at him, looking horrified and flushed. “You -- You don’t have to -- Not _yet_ , at least. I --”

He licks his lips, suddenly nervous, entirely uncertain of his welcome. His ass sags down a bit, the urge to curl up to protect his vulnerables intense.

“But I want it,” he tells her. “Boss, I -- I do. I _want_ it. So just -- do it, fill me up, _breed_ me, c’mon -- !”

She makes a hot, angry sound and The Ace, for all that he’s made it his job to read her signs, her signals, he can’t tell if it’s good or bad, that sound. The road here to this moment has been so full of hidden sinkholes and strange detours that he can’t tell north from south. But then she’s stalking toward him, sinking down to her knees in the bed and tipping him over, all rough and fast, and his eyes go wide and his breath leaves him in a little rush. His gearstick twitches, and then he realizes all at once that Furiosa is staring at it, that she flipped him over so she could -- could _check_ , as if she couldn’t believe it, believe _him_ , her Ace.

He reaches out a hand, hesitates just a heartbeat, and then grasps her arm just above her prosthetic. He hitches his hips up a little, to better display himself. “Look -- I’m all heated up for you, just the _thought_ of it. Want you t’ breed me, boss.”

She growls.

“You don’t know what it’s like.”

“You’re gonna knot me, yeah?” Ace asks, words all wobbly and uneven. “Want it. Show me what it’s like.”

Her gaze rakes its way up his belly, his chest, his neck, all the way to his face until she’s staring him in the eyes. “ _Please_ , alpha!” he grates out, unable to help himself.

This time, she damn well _snarls_.

He yelps when she seizes him by shoulder and hip again, flipping him over once more. One arm -- her flesh -- goes around his belly and tugs him up, just enough that she can grind her bulge against his ass, let him feel it. When he moans, she rewards him with a hand on his gearstick, palming the tip like she’s idly wondering what gear to shift him into. 

“Ace,” she murmurs into his shoulder blade. “My Ace. I’m going to make you feel so _good_.”

He’s not sure why that sounds like a threat, but it does.

“ _Yes_ ,” he groans. “Yes, _yes_.”

* *

(It is absolutely a threat, but it’s one Ace is not complaining about.

No matter how intricate his fantasies got -- 

wedging in between her knees in the cab of the rig, pedals digging into his ass while he let her knot his mouth, all the other Boys sullen with jealousy -- in the breeding rooms, soft hands holding him down while his alpha filled him up and only him, despite how fertile these beta women were -- out in the wastes with no one there to witness, just the sand sliding hot and rough beneath his knees and against his cheek while he spread himself open for her 

\-- it is _nothing_ in comparison to the real thing.)

* *

Furiosa is licking into his ass.

The Ace can’t describe what it feels like -- shivery chrome, all ginting precious and shine, like the world’s gone metal-bright behind his eyes -- the feeling of her tongue wedged up inside there, how it presses against nerve endings and wiggles, how it stabs into him again and again until she pulls back and laps at him, curling against the rim.

He _howls_ , clawing at the sheets with the perfection of it.

She pulls back at some point and The Ace uses the time to take in heaving lungfuls of air, trying to get his bearings. He’s twitching all over, and the air feels cool against the damp spit all over his hole, and, oh, is he glad that he scrubbed up for her, using precious Aqua Cola to get his asshole as clean as he could make it, because she growls out, “You got yourself ready for me. So eager to be used, hm?”

It’s like a punch to the gut, or metal scraping down his spine. He shudders hard, shoving back with his ass toward her voice, her face, her perfect tongue and the way it fucks him. He whines.

“ _Good_ ,” she grunts, and then her metal fingers are parting his cheeks again and she seals her mouth around his pucker and _sucks it_ , hard, and oh oh _oh_ \--

* *

(He had thought it might be brutal. Had thought to be used, plugged up and sloshing with seed, sore and tender with the ache of her knot sealing him closed. Had thought he’d have to grit his teeth through pain and hadn’t once been afraid of it.

Pleasure like this is enough to terrify him, though.

He’ll get addicted.)

* *

“B-Boss,” he grits out, “you -- guh _uhn_.”

Furiosa hums a little, licking at his puffy rim while she uses her finger, now. The Ace is sprawled out on his belly, still, from where she’d pressed him down to eat him out, one of his knees crooked up high to spread him wide, his gearstick trapped between too-soft mattress and his own gut. He squirms, which isn’t enough pressure.

It makes her bite his ass though, teeth worrying gently at his flesh.

He groans. Says, “Boss, don’t you -- don’t you need t’ rut? Ah _ah_ , schlanger!”

She laughs, low and rough. “Not exactly,” she promises, and then twines her tongue back down, jabbing it at his pucker where it’s clenched tight around her finger, gobbled up to the second knuckle. His breath hitches in a whine that becomes a keen when she makes a dissatisfied noise and crooks her finger down, pulling him open so that she can get her tongue inside, wiggling. 

“ _Boss_!” he wails, spasming. 

Pulling back, she blows cool air on his hole to make him twitch, the extra saliva letting her slide her finger in a little deeper. He groans. She starts rubbing around inside of him, seeking -- oh no. Oh _no_.

“Found it,” she rumbles, viciously, deeply pleased, and just like that her finger is on that tight little bundle of nerves deep in him, pressure firm, and all at once his engines overheat and he -- he -- _fuck_ , he spills all over her mattress, his spunk seeping into the fabric in a way that makes him want to cringe immediately, afraid he’s ruined it, but he’s gasping and panting for air, vision unfocused, still shaking in the aftermath, and Furiosa --

Snarls, “ _There_ you go. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

* *

Relaxed after that brutal orgasm The Ace almost drifts off to sleep. Furiosa had leaned back, sliding her hands free of him. He had whined at the loss but was feeling far too shine to kick up much of a fuss. His boss (-- _his alpha_ \--) had put her mouth on him, her finger _inside_ of him; it was almost more than he could fathom, no matter that he wanted more.

So he drifts for a little bit, hearing rustling sounds behind him but too dazed to take note; and then he feels a spatter of something hot hit his ass, something -- a _lot_ of something wet, it -- he sucks in a hard breath, eyes bolting open, immediately awake as he registers the scent, realizes what just happened.

“Ah,” Furiosa says, rough and low. “That’s pretty.”

Her human hand is back on his ass, now, and -- and trailing through her _seed_ , she came on him, she came on her _Ace_ like he’s somehow worthy and it’s enough to kick his engine back up into high gear, body thrumming, a whistling whine coming out of his throat. But somehow he also manages to say, a little wryly, “You’re supposed t’ come _in_ me, boss.”

She snorts. Her fingers stop rubbing her come into his skin, much to his regret -- at least until she scoops some up and starts pushing it into his relaxed hole. 

“Wanted something to stretch you with,” she says. “Ease the way.”

“There --” he doesn’t know how he gets the words out; the _want_ is so deep and wild inside of him, trembling ravenous at the first push of her seed inside him, he is so _desperate_ , “-- could’a -- ah ah -- u-used lube? Grease? _Engine oil_?”

“Mm,” she replies placidly. “Only want you to smell like _me_.”

He moans, melting into the mattress. His hips arch, trying to give her a better angle to push more of her seed inside of his body, getting him all slick and ready for her. His knees struggle to spread, trying to expose himself further, trying to keep himself tilted up so nothing slips out. 

“Yes,” he pants. “Yes -- that. Alpha, _yes_.”

She rumbles at him in a way that makes him shiver, and then she calls him her Good Boy again as she slowly presses two fingers past his pucker, fitting inside him and pushing her seed even deeper within. He doesn’t have any words, then, can barely breathe past how good it all feels, how much he loves it, and she rewards him by giving him a third finger and then prying them all apart, stretching him open.

“Gonna fill you up,” she growls, and carefully uses her mechanical hand to push and scrape her remaining seed inside, where she’s got him spread and gaping open for her.

The Ace feels it sliding past the rim, trickling down inside of him. 

He can’t stop whimpering.

* *

She won’t let him bring his hips down.

And he doesn’t want to but he’s _tired_ , he’s wrecked and trembling and his body can’t support him anymore -- too exhausted and twitching with pleasure. So she keeps his hips in her hands and nuzzles at his lower back and _holds him_ there, holds him with his ass up so that none of her seed can spill out while she takes a break from fucking him. From _breeding_ him, because that’s what this is, that’s what she wants: all her seed to stay in him, to get him swollen and overfull.

The Ace might think that this is Valhalla, but he’s come-drunk and well-fucked and his alpha is _breeding_ him, so he thinks the blasphemy might go unremarked.

“Can you take more?” Furiosa asks.

The Ace feels like he’s going to _burst_ , and he says, “Yes, yes, yes,” and she slides back inside of him, her gearstick so big and long and thick, and she fucks him slow and careful, not wanting to spill, not wanting to waste anything, and when she comes inside him again it is _so much_ , he’s groaning with it, feeling it swell him up, and then --

Her knot keeps him plugged up, so she sits back on her shins and pulls him up with her, thighs splayed out over hers. It settles her deeper inside him which he hadn’t thought possible, and lets her put her hands on his belly and jostle it, squeeze it a little, just to see.

It’s round, inflated with come, and The Ace stares down at the strange curve of his stomach, his alpha’s hands there all possessive and greedy, and wants to cry it’s so good, too good, he --

“Shh,” Furiosa soothes him, nuzzling. “You _are_ , you are good. My Ace, my perfect Ace. All mine, full of my pups, look at this belly. Gonna get so big and beautiful like you _deserve_ , you’ll see.”

\-- he’s not an omega, he’s _not_ , but he really fucking wishes he could be. 

Worn out, exhausted, lit up all over with pleasure, he leans back into Furiosa. Her shoulders aren’t as broad as his but her back is steel-spined and straight and proud and she’s _strong_. She takes his weight, holds him tight to her, and nuzzles into his shoulder while his head tips back against her. 

She tells him, “ _Mine_ ,” and he believes it.

* *

The noonday sun is hot on his shoulders, making sweat turn his careful paint and grease into something sloppy, something used. He feels sticky, worn out; the nightfevers have been bad these last seven days leading up to their run. He keeps his goggles on even in the shade so none of the new Boys can see how tired his eyes are; they’re running on empty out here, heading the long way to Bartertown in a cargo rig.

The Ace swings down to hang off the side of the boss’ door, resting his chin on his folded forearm. 

The Imperator is doing last checks, one hand casually laid atop her steering wheel, all possessive and heavy, dark metal fingers in an articulate, telling curve over the gleaming steel. The Ace hums a moment, taking her in, because even though it’s been two hundred days he feels like he’s only just now realizing what an honor it is to have her as Imperator. 

“How’re the new Boys?” she asks without looking at him.

“We’ll see,” he responds. “Gotta keep an eye on Tread, I think. Keeps fingerin' his chrome like he’s gaggin' for the Gates.”

Her face is turned away from him, but he sees the hard clench of her jaw, muscle bulging. “So long as he doesn’t pull any of my Boys with him,” she mutters. The Ace hums again, trying not to laugh, because he knows how she is -- they all know how she is, even Tread. It’s likely just the excitement of his first run getting him amped up and ready to go kamicrazy, but if not, well, best to find out early.

She pauses at his hum. Then she leans back in her seat and slants a look at him, and for a moment he can’t breathe. She’s pale skin and hard, rough edges against the dark leather, grease slick and shining even in the dim interior, all power waiting to be unleashed. Even her arm is a threat, the nub not a failure or a weak point when it’s strapped into her prosthesis. 

The Ace swallows, staring at it, and then gives her an unimpressed look.

(Because that’s his job, he’s her Ace and he won’t let her get away with too much; it’d be dangerous for her otherwise, he thinks. It doesn’t matter that he’s caught himself staring at that hand, knowing the strength of it, knowing that it could hold him in place with ease, no matter the difference in their body mass. He wakes up gasping for it, sometimes, but that’s okay, that’s okay because --

“Alpha,” he can say, now, and have Furiosa shudder with hunger and pull him into the cab of the rig at night when all is still and quiet, all the War Boys there to Witness that it’s _Ace_ that satisfies her, _Ace_ that she calls her own, that she claims with teeth and finger-shaped bruises and the lingering limp in his gait from her knot tying them close.

It’s _definitely_ Valhalla, he thinks.)

She says sternly, “Don’t keep so close a watch you wind up joining him on Fury Road.”

“An’ leave you?” The Ace asks, with a rusty chuckle. “Never.”

**Author's Note:**

>   
>   
>  \--  
> god, those last lines killed me to write.
> 
> if you like it to hurt, ignore the following word dump. but if you like to imagine happier futures, then here, have some further headcanon from this 'verse: i like to imagine that The Ace is both hateful and forgiving of the fact that Furiosa like, kicks him to the curb for a rig full of perfect omegas. and THEN i like to imagine that he didn't die and that, somehow, post-movie Max finds him out in the wastes and realizes when The Ace flips shit over Max having Furiosa's bandanna that he belongs to her somehow and thus offers to take him back to the Citadel. i then enjoy imagining The Ace having a morose time of it, convinced that Furiosa is choosing this omega over him, even though he clearly has issues, and he's incredibly jealous and heartbroken but he gets it, all right, HE GETS IT, The Ace is not an omega, and an alpha needs an omega, and -
> 
> at the end of the day, i definitely enjoy imagining the awkward, painful reunion of The Ace and Furiosa, and also how fucking shine The Ace is gonna feel when he realizes that Furiosa is literally surrounded by omegas who would happily claim her as their alpha but the only person -- MATE, which is a novel concept to the Citadel, thanks Max -- she wants is HIM, and
> 
> happily ever after, the end. thank you for reading!


End file.
